


I won for myself a wicked life

by signalbeam



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Technically historically inaccurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7951954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signalbeam/pseuds/signalbeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Dear Theodosia,</em>
</p><p> <em>The waters are treacherous and I may die before these words reach you. </em> </p><p>  <em>You cross that out. </em></p><p>With Burr's term as vice-president over, Burr gets on a ship and heads for London. No one's going to die this time, probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I won for myself a wicked life

Thomas Jefferson has invited you for dinner. By which you mean, you walk into his office with a golden apple and an extra chair. Your time as vice-president is nearly over and you are itching to make a good last impression. 

Mr. President’s office is a single chair, an enormous desk and a handsome pencil sketch of Lafayette. Or himself. They do look eerily alike. 

"I thought I hid all those," he says. 

He must be talking about the chairs. He has a small army of staff remove all chairs from the room after he’s done with whatever audience he has coming in. You can hear him snapping his fingers, calling for more chairs to be brought in when the party is larger than he expected. ‘Madison, why didn’t you tell me these charmers were coming?’ he’ll shout. For the sake of national security, you make sure you stay near his office, either by putting your own office next door or, when he changes locations, by standing in the corner with a lampshade over your head. You’re still the vice-president, after all. It’s important to know what he’s doing. 

“You’ll want to sit down, I suppose,” Jefferson says. 

“Thank you,” you say. You bring the chair over and set it in front of him. You put the golden apple—painted gold, but it’s the thought that counts—in front of him. “I’ve come to say my goodbyes. It’s been a pleasure working with you over these last four years.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea of what you’re talking about.” 

“It’s been an honor working with the mind that penned, _Life, liberty, and the pursuit of_ —” 

“You’re ruining it,” he warns. You offer him the apple. He ignores it. You poke it across his desk. He stands up, looking down upon you. His hair has started to droop and turn gray, and his mouth, after four years of presidency, is beginning to acquire a pinched quality you always admired in Washington when he was alive. You imagine your own father, had he lived, would have had a mouth like that. “Burr, you have to understand. Even if that Alexander business hadn’t turned out the way it did. Fact is, I would’ve—”

“Please, the apple.” 

He spits on the apple and polishes it with his sleeve. He rubs a paint chip between his fingertips and flicks it away.

“Sir,” you say. “Congratulations on winning the election.” 

Jefferson puts his feet on the desk. “Democracy at work, Burr.” He tosses the apple in the air and catches in his hands. He looks at you, indolent.

Someone knocks on the door. Simpering yet Virginian. Must be Madison. Jefferson sits up straight. 

“Burr, let me give you some free advice. Take a vacation. Get out of Washington for a while. I’ll even let you take one of my busts of Alexander to sell wherever it is you end up. God knows you need the money!” 

“What am I going to do with a bust of Hamilton?” you demand. 

“Burr, Burr,” Jefferson says. He takes a bite out of the apple, then hands it back to you. “Come on and let me talk to my friends already.” 

You bite the apple. You bite right where he bit. You swirl your tongue around the apple flesh and really dig your teeth in. You don’t break eye contact. 

“You’re the worst, Burr,” Jefferson says. 

Mealy, sour, soft in some places and hard to chew in others. The apple doesn’t seem to be agreeing with you. 

“It was a pleasure speaking with you, Mr. President,” you say. 

“Bye-bye, Burr,” Jefferson says. 

The door opens. 

“Sir,” Madison says. “Is Mr. Burr still bothering you?” 

You spit an apple seed at Madison, then hurry away before the Virginians can start squawking, “why, I never!” 

It’s fine, you think. You’re done here. 

*** 

You hire a cab back home. 

On the way, a man in a shabby hat carrying a basket of genuine Chinese porcelain approaches your cab boldly. “Only a little bit defective,” he says, holding a porcelain figure of a woman in a dress. Her skirt is unevenly painted and she’s missing a hand. You go for a beer with the man, despite your better judgment. 

You are having a most awful dream. Alexander is kissing you, but his mouth is like ice. Because, you want to say, he is dead and you should know better than to accept affection from ghosts, but no. It is worse than that. His hands grip your shoulders and refuse to let you buck away. Your hands are caught up behind you. There is cold water all around. When you wake up, you’re face-down on the table with two real fucked up porcelain pieces next to your hand, and a wallet light enough you suspect robbery. 

Oh. No. You remember now. You look at the dolls morosely and tell yourself Theo will find it amusing. 

You hail another cab to take you back home, no detours this time. You won’t be living here for much longer in Washington DC. There are complications. You can’t go back to New York City just yet, and Jersey is risky, too. But it’s hardly as though you could stand to stay in Washington, either. 

A trip, a trip—ah, you must go somewhere! 

***

You might have made the wrong choice. 

In March, you went off and gave your resignation speech to the Senate, succinct and eloquent. Then, in a fit of madness, you wrote hastily to Theodosia instructing her to take charge of all your affairs. You packed some of your things, went to check the schedules, and found yourself out on a ship to Boston, now to London. At the time you had thought: there is no way this can go wrong! Why did you think that? 

“Aaron Burr,” General Washington once said, “does not seem like a man capable of finding his feet.” 

George Washington knew nothing. You would have made a fine naval officer. But now you are huddled in your room below deck as the ship jumps and leaps and swings this way and that. You’re trying to write a letter to Theodosia, taking care to not blot the page—postage is expensive and you’re not sure how you’ll afford it. 

_Dear Theodosia,_

You are tempted to go on about the general for a while, but you know she does not like it when you talk too much about him. When she was little, she used to laugh when you mentioned him. These days she tries to change the subject. “Father, about the Iliad,” she’ll say. Or, “I very much liked Mr. Johnson’s work with the dictionary.” 

_The waters are treacherous and I may die before these words reach you._

You cross that out. 

_I head to London. I’m sorry that you and Mr. Alston will be unable to join me, but urge you to find somewhere else to escape the foul city miasma. I have heard good things about the baths of New York, but my personal affections are for the spas of Germany. But I understand why you may not wish to go overseas in this season…_

The ship shudders and groans. You hear footsteps—of running sailors? Of rats? Some people have told you ghosts may visit you, which you dismissed when your wife died: she never came to visit you, nor your parents. But you can’t help but feel as though Hamilton may have motivation to stay closer to you. 

You continue writing. Towards the end you are conscious of beginning to repeat yourself, and tell her crossly that you do not expect her to respond to every one of your letters, but not so many people call on you these days and merely writing is a source of comfort to you. Also, writing to you will keep her mind employed and thus further away from melancholy, as your own scribbling has demonstrated. 

Your sense of self-pity increases, then decreases, which is about normal. 

While you’re waiting for the ink to dry, a sailor pounds on your door. 

“Sir! The ship is leaking! The captain is ordering us to abandon ship.” 

“Surely not,” you say. 

“Get off your ass already, sir.” 

You’re wishing you could uncross your lines. You grab your diary, your letters to and from Theodosia, some clothes, and even a few books. Then you and the sailor run up to the main deck. From here, you can see how far the ship has sunk, hear the water chopping at the wood, the howling wind and rain, the terrible scream of planks giving way—how did you not notice from within? You had been too busy writing. This does not sound like a very good excuse. 

You shove your way forward to a lifeboat, take a seat, and grab an oar. 

“Where are we going?” you shout, over the sound of the ship’s death screams. “How far are we from land?” 

The crewmen’s terrible murmuring fill in the space between the sounds of threatening waves and splintering ship and jetsam battering against the sides of the boat. You shiver. You row farther and farther from the ship. You were in a trading ship, heavy mostly with timber and molasses not men, but it sounds as though there were some men who had drowned or had not made it to a lifeboat. 

That’s your luck. You’re an impossible man to kill. 

You feel grateful and ashamed. Grateful that you should live, still. Ashamed for how you had not realized how much you were hoping to die, when you still have your daughter and grandson and that Joseph Alston to think of. But why should you have to die just because you shot the general? So you will never be president. So your career is over. But you know that the public is forgetful and three or five years from now you might return to America ready to remake yourself into a shining new man. Maybe Jefferson will have burnt out all his political capital on that stupid backyard called Louisiana. You will make his hatred of you into your advantage. 

Or you will go back to law and do what you always should have done: stay close to home, tend to your affairs, become a judge. 

Aaron Burr is not dead. Aaron Burr will never die. Aaron Burr will row and row on. 

***

The storm continues all through the night and into the dawn and the morning. You spend most of the night struggling to pull away from the sinking ship. And then it is getting out of the storm—struggling to keep the pack together. You know nothing about surviving out at sea. You do what you’re told, occasionally try to make an inspiring speech, and think frantically about the state of your letters. Will you be able to recreate them? Will you have to rewrite them? Would it be better to start anew? 

The sailors are calmer now. They let you sleep—at least in part because you are useless at rowing. You have enough time to even crack one of your books open. A lock of hair slips out. You recognize it immediately. It’s Hamilton’s. Eliza went around handing out locks of his hair and this was brought to you by a friend who had wanted you to have it as a memento… you’re relieved to have it here. You could sell it in London for some amount of money, you think. 

As it turns out, you’re a lucky man. You were blown off-course during the storm, but are now not too far to a common trade route headed for the mid-Atlantic Portuguese plantation islands. There is enough food here to keep everyone in good shape. Those who made it into a boat are in good health. The weather, the vicious storm aside, is in your favor. God willing, no one will die. 

When you’re given an oar, you row. Day, night, noon, twilight, you work. You prefer the evening shift: sleep is impossible unless you’re dead exhausted. Everything stinks. It’s the smell of the ocean, a quaint and charming tickle in the nostrils from the height of a ship and down in the boat, an evil, bubbling sewer that gets in your mouth and keeps your clothes constantly half-wet. But you have a new problem: you can’t stay warm. Your teeth chatter. You ask for a blanket and get a biscuit. 

“My teeth ache,” you say sadly. Is this the end for you? Will you become like the sailors with their Washingtonian turtle mouths? 

Since you can’t sleep, they put you on rowing duty. After you nearly drop your oar into the ocean, a man shoves the back of his hand against your forehead and says, “The old man’s sick.”

“Bugger. Someone get him another biscuit.”

“I need a blanket,” you say. But they are all out. A man removes his stinking coat and throws it over you. You accept it, but you want a bath. It helps with the shivering. If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine that you are… 

***

… astride your horse, riding into death, at the Battle of Monmouth…

Because you were there, you remember it. The heat of the guns going off, the heat of the sun, holes shot through your ranks—just British guns, but they might as well be cannons. Every time you look, fewer men are behind you. On a usual day, you’d be yelling at them to buck up, pull up their asscheeks off the ground and get to doing their drills, show their spines, but you can’t blame them for running when each crack of the gun is followed by another man’s head reduced to bloody mist and pulsing white mass. 

When you look behind you again, it’s Alexander Hamilton on a horse, standing up and shouting and waving his gun around like a flag. 

“What are you doing?” you shout. 

“Washington’s ordered a retreat!”

“So turn around! Turn around, man!” 

“I can’t turn around!” 

“Why not, man!” 

“I needed to get you!” 

Your horse rears up and tries to throw you off. You just barely regain control. You turn your horse around and Hamilton does the same. 

“Repaying the favor for Manhattan,” Hamilton says. 

“I didn’t think you noticed,” you say. “You got all the credit for the cannons.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to do that without you.” 

That doesn’t seem right. You’ve never known Hamilton to say a thing without taking credit in the same breath. 

“Daddy,” he says. 

“What?”

That’s when you realize that was you. You groan and jerk awake and realize someone’s hands are on you. It’s a man. He’s unbuttoning your shirt. 

“Hey, what the hell, man?” you say, and try to knock his hand away. But you’re weak and soon he’s relieved you of your coats and shirts. Your letters and book and lock of Alexander’s hair fall onto the bottom of the boat. “I’m cold.”

“You’re burning up,” the man says. “You need to cool down.” 

“Let me have my things.” 

The man gives you your things, and also gives you a look. As though to say, You kidding me? 

But you say, feverish and a little excited, “I think I’m dying. That’s never happened to me before.” 

*** 

Another ship picks you up. They put you in a hammock and then leave you. The men you were with, they put to work: they need extra hands. 

You spend the whole time shivering cold and seasick. You hold onto Hamilton’s hair and move it over your lips. You’re doing this to get him to talk to you, man to man. It takes two people to murder someone in a duel: one person to stand there and aim at the sky and the other one to actually pull the trigger. If you can see him in a dream, then you can interrogate him. Ask him what exactly he was thinking. Though you may be too deep in the dream to take any action of that sort. 

When molesting yourself does not summon him, you rub the hair against your face to warm your upper lip. Why is it so hard for you to grow a moustache? 

You’re no longer actively dying. This is an state that should be familiar to you, but it feels strange and new. You don’t recognize the contours of this life. You’re not in politics, you’re not writing letters, you’re not on solid land. You’re feverish on a ship you don’t know the name of. Your daughter, does she know your ship has gone down? Does she know you’re still alive? You could let the world think you’re dead. You could write Theodosia letters occasionally: I, your father, write to you from the grave to insure your continued education… 

Eventually you fall asleep.

When you wake up, you’re somewhere new. You’re in New Jersey—you’d recognize the sad droop of the leaves anywhere. You look down at your jacket. Filthy, smells like smoke and moss. Pistol at your hip. You’re holding onto a bucket of water. It’s for General Lee, moaning in a tent somewhere behind you. 

It’s dark. You’re standing in the woods, looking at a tent lit yellow as the moon against the trees. General Washington is inside. Alexander Hamilton is inside. 

You can hear them talking. Hamilton’s wife is with child. Hamilton refuses to be Washington’s son. 

Go home, Alexander, says the general. And the tent flaps fly open and Hamilton goes stomping off into the dark. You wait to see if anyone is going to follow him. No one does. Washington’s never been the type to run after someone to soothe his nerves. Come to think of it, you can’t think of anyone who would. Maybe one of the Schuyler sisters. His widow. The Mrs. John Church.

You go after him. He doesn’t know you’re coming. When you take hold of his shoulder, he leaps up. His little fist jerks towards your gut, as though he intends to knock you down. Alexander Hamilton, knock you down! 

“Easy there,” you say. 

“Shouldn’t you be with Lee?” Hamilton tugs his uniform back into place. He takes his hat and sticks it under his arm. He pulls himself straight and glares. 

“Alexander,” you say. You put your hand on his shoulder. “I don’t want there to be any hard feelings between us.”

“Were you eavesdropping on me and the general?” 

“No.” 

“He’s sending me home,” he says bitterly. He sticks his hand in your bucket and wipes his face and neck. Water drips down his nose and falls onto his upper lip. “What about you?” 

“You’re the ones who challenged General Lee.” 

“I meant your wife. Theodosia. You’re married.” He reaches down into your bucket again, this time to clean his hands. Your hand falls away from his shoulder. “Is she pregnant, too?” 

You were married last winter after Theodosia’s husband died of yellow fever. You took her up to Jersey and had a friend marry you—and then you were back in the field. Out here. “Not yet.”

“Lucky you.” 

He doesn’t even seem to be thinking about the duel or your relationship. He’s too obsessed with being sent home—just like him to be so self-centered. You ignore your hurt feelings and put the bucket on the soft earth and take him by the shoulder again. 

“Alexander, we’re both orphans. This is an opportunity. You’ll see. Eliza will make you very happy.” 

“I can’t leave the war. I can’t leave Laurens.” 

“You’ll feel different when you see the child.” 

“You’re right,” he says, but his head is still bowed low, chin touching his chest, as though he might charge forward in anger. You run your hands along his shoulders and arms, down to his wrists, then back up. He looks up at you. “I’m glad we served together, Burr.” 

“No hard feelings,” you say, and pull him closer. You don’t know what it is about him right now: you’re jealous he’s about to have a family, you’re sad he’s leaving, though not as sad as you should be… you can see an opportunity when it appears and Hamilton leaving is just that. The drops of water on his upper lip, his simple gratitude as he looks at you, it’s irresistible. You kiss his cheek just as he embraces you. Your faces bump together—you want to say something, but he puts his cheek in your chest. 

“Goodbye,” he says. 

The ship jars. You wake up, your head swimming. 

You’ve reached land. The island smells of citrus and salt. You’re escorted off the ship and bunched together with the other refugees, and led to a hotel, or what passes for it. A boarding house for sailors and orange pickers. You are given a bed, a meal, and fresh water. When you complain the ground still moves, you’re told you’ll acclimate soon. 

The islanders speak Portuguese, for the most part, but some speak French and English. There are no ships headed back to America, but there are some that can take you to London. You will be arriving sans trucks, with nothing but some letters, your diary, and your name. 

Well, that is not all. You have your lock of Hamilton’s hair. You reach for your pockets to feel it between your fingers—but what’s this? It’s gone. 

***

_Dear Theodosia, you might have heard that my ship was wrecked in the middle of the Atlantic. I write to dissuade you of my death, though I am still far from London…_

_I write to ask whether you are directly managing my affairs at home or whether you have transferred those concerns to a lawyer. If it is the former, then I must ask that you send some money to me, for I have suffered the loss of my trunks and find myself short on credit in these parts… did you know, hardly anyone knows who I am here? If you have left them in the hands of another executor, such as a lawyer or, God forbid!, your husband, Mr. Alston, please have them release some money and convey to them my thanks._

_The storm soaked the last letters you sent me and I am no longer intimately familiar with your readings and education. Please inform your dear father of your recent learning so I might guide you more effectively and boast to all those around me on your progress. My dearest Theo! You may be the last person in this mortal Earth who still loves me! Be sure to review your Greek, as I have remembered that you were last having difficulty capturing the music of the meter._

*** 

His hair is lost to you. You cannot find it. You search for it for some days—there is very little to do on this island beyond look for things, recuperate, and write letters—then give up. 

You assumed, with your fever gone and Hamilton’s hair lost, you would never see him again, but he is a frequent visitor in your dreams in a way that Theodosia was not after she died, though that is a period in your life you find difficult to remember. You spent so long crying that, months later, surfacing from your wild grief, you found you could not remember anything. When you looked back at your diary, it was full of lists of things you bought and sad notes about snot speckles. Your daughter later told you she was able to return most of your purchases. It seems as though Theodosia’s death made your creditors, for once, generous. 

Yes, it is partially that you are not deeply grieved that Hamilton is dead. You pity Eliza. You are somewhat sorrier for yourself than you are for him. But it’s also your poor health: the fever leaves you weak and the lucky recipient of multiple bloodletting sessions from the French doctor. The dreams are particularly intense after those sessions: the throbbing in your arm and your head, the weakness and chills, push you into a place that put you near the place you were in the little rocking boat in the middle of the cold Atlantic, when you thought you were dying. 

Ah, it’s good to remember those days when you were both young and guiltless. Hamilton, a jumpy greencoated intruder in the life and career that should have been yours, leaning into the sound of your voice. Hamilton at his wedding, steering you to a quiet corner of the room so you could talk. Hamilton in your law office, raging about a case. You had forgotten the round face of his youth, the scrappy hitch of his voice. You’re surprised by how good it is to see him regularly. The man you killed had once been your friend. 

It’s only in your dreams that you can see him clearly. You’re normally focused on future schemes and plans. For better or worse, you’re not a man who thinks often of the past. And awake, you find it difficult to keep your attention on the past. There are still things waiting for you: Louisiana! Mexico! Already you’re writing letters to set these schemes into motion. There’s so much of your life left. 

Tonight is to be your last night on this island. In the morning you head to London, where you will have money and friends waiting. You go to bed shortly after sunset and wait for him. And just as always, he complies—

***

It’s never the same memory twice. Tonight it’s you and Theodosia and Theo passing the Hamiltons and little Phillip on the streets of New York on an autumn day. Mrs. Hamilton is pregnant. You and Hamilton are not long out of the war. You’re due to oppose one another in court in a week. You are prepared to be cordial and civil and perhaps say something to undercut his confidence, though you doubt he will realize the smoothness of your diss. 

But what is this? Alexander Hamilton greets you in high spirits. He picks up his Phillip off the ground and swings him about, then sets him down and says, “That there is Theodosia Burr, do you remember her?” And he takes you by the arm and shouts to Eliza and Theodosia, “Let me borrow Burr, Theodosia!” 

“Theo, remember your alphabet,” you shout idiotically. Theo gives you a reproachful look of deep pain. She has never forgotten her alphabet. 

You hear your wife say to Eliza, gaily, “Will the next one be a girl or a boy, do you think?” 

The streets are golden, the sky and sun conspire to turn eye-watering—you cannot raise your eyes higher than the treeline. You are forced to stare at him squarely in the face. He will be your enemy next week, you remind yourself, and try to squash any feelings of kindness towards him.

He takes you into an alleyway behind a bar. He looks one way, then the other. Why, you wonder. The streets are empty, the other side is a dead-end. Any idiot with eyes can see that. 

“I am to be New York’s junior delegate to the Constitutional Convention,” he announces, then puffs up. 

What is it that happens now. You’re full of jealousy. You think about killing him. If he wins next week’s court case, you will challenge him to a duel and put a bullet in his mouth. You will be doing the convention a favor. Imagine being stuck in a stuffy, locked room with Alexander Hamilton ragging on and on for hours! 

“Really,” you say. 

“Yes, that’s right.” 

“Congratulations, Alexander.” 

“Thank you, Aaron.” He does not look pleased with himself. It must be because he’s called you Aaron. 

You put your hands behind your back and look up at the narrow cut of sky between the buildings and say, “New York’s junior delegate! Why aren’t you the senior delegate?” 

“I am only thirty-one,” he says, dissatisfied. 

“But you’ve published as though you’re a hundred.” 

“Now you are teasing me.” 

“Forgive me, sir.”

“Burr.” 

You think about shaking his hand and walking away, but you cannot bring yourself to offer your hand to him now. Thirty-one. He is a year older than you, and when he remembers this, he can be impossible to deal with. He thinks of you as his intellectual equal, you know. He is always asking you for advice when he is not howling at you for being an idiot and shaming yourself at the bench, as though he’s never had a slime ball defendant himself! He brings up the fact that you took an accelerated course of study at King’s College nearly constantly, with envy, as though a man’s age can be determined by his diploma. 

He is impossibly far ahead of you. He is a General, you a Lieutenant Colonel. You wish for another war so you could catch up. You wish for George Washington to shut up about you. 

“You could still come,” Hamilton says. 

“You would give up your spot in the delegation for me?” 

“Yes, of course! If you asked for it, I would do it. We would have to work out a plan, but you would be brilliant, Burr, I’m sure of it.” 

“My wife is not doing well,” you say. “I cannot be long from her.”

“Theodosia. How is she?” 

“I’ve just said.”

“Right. Sorry. But the Convention is in New York. We could even trade places. You could argue the parts I am too verbose at—” Sneaky orphan bastard, he does not say ‘incoherent,’ which is the truth! “—and I can take the parts that might bring us some heat…” He is standing close to you, your hips not far from one another. He tilts his head, lets some strands of his hair sweep from the top of his head down in an arc to his cheek and says, “They’ll all say to themselves what a pity it is for us that Aaron Burr has let his madman, Alexander Hamilton, off the leash.” 

“Won’t they be saying, ‘t’is a pity that no one has muzzled Mr. Hamilton?’” you say. 

“Wouldn’t it be a pity if no one muzzled me now.” 

Poor Eliza, being married to this tomcat! You seize his shoulders with a villain’s strength. He draws himself close to you instantly and kisses you. He invites himself graciously into your mouth, cradling the back of your head in his warm palm, holding onto your purple coat with his other hand. He runs his hand down your lapels, flattens his hand on your chest, then puts a small amount of pressure against your stomach. You grab that hand and shove it against the wall. You bite his lip. 

“No, no, no, no teeth,” he says. “Fuck it.” 

You do not stop kissing him. You are almost certain he has pulled this on nearly everyone he knew in the war. Laurens for certain. Lafayette, perhaps. Mulligan, plenty of opportunities. But you are the only one who has been around after the war. Isn’t that right? 

You must decide to return to your wives separately. Your next memory is standing in the alleyway, straightening out your clothes, then stepping out onto the streets, invigorated and feeling refreshed. You take the wrong turn back to your wife and Theo twice, and by the time you find them, you find Hamilton and Phillip on the far end of the street, their backs to you, and Eliza trying to cheer Theo up. Theodosia looks overwhelmed and upset, and gladdens when she sees you. Theo looks patient. Bored. You take her into your arms and kiss her cheeks. Her melancholy only make you brighter and more boistrous. 

She says her goodbyes to Eliza without you having to prompt her. She says goodbye to Mr. Hamilton and Phillip very well. 

“She is a darling,” Hamilton says. He bends down and pats Theodosia on the head. “If you are ever in trouble, don’t be afraid to ask your uncle Hamilton for help.” 

“I shall never marry a lawyer,” she says gravely. 

“Daddy is a lawyer.”

“I shall never, ever, ever marry a lawyer.” Now her eyes are full of tears.

“She is hungry, dear,” Theodosia says to you. She touches your elbow, smells your neck, and sighs. 

“Hunger should not rule you,” you say to Theo, and now the tears spill over. 

You mean to be severe with her, but remember that you are in front of Hamilton. But no. You look up and he is gone. He must have taken Eliza and Phillip and went on his way to wherever it is that the family goes when he has the time to spend with them. How many children did he have? The son, the daughter, and… how many after? You doubt even Hamilton remembers. 

You pick your Theo up and put her on your hip, not caring for how you are flaunting your indulgence of your only daughter. You’re about to turn away when you see Hamilton watching you, not gone as you supposed, only stepped around to the other side of you. He’s standing there, his hand on Eliza’s back, his body drawn high, his hair thrown back into a ponytail and streaked with white in the sun. 

“Burr!” he shouts. “Think about it, won’t you? We should work together more often. Promise me—promise you’ll think about it.”

You smile, turn, and walk away. 

How different your life might have been if you had said yes! How different… 

***

You wake from this dream still in the black of late night with tears coming out of your eyes. Alexander, my dear old friend, who has done this to us? Was it time, or was there some other creature that came and stole away my friends and my wife and my future?

If you were ever meant to get a response, it would come now. But there’s nothing waiting for you out here. No advancing dawn or voices arising out of the salted night. 

In the morning, you will pen another letter to Theodosia. Your sweet daughter, your only consolation in this life. Tomorrow you will spend the rest of your money to discharge your thoughts and instructions to your darling, black-eyed girl, whose letters cannot come in time to comfort you.


End file.
